


Oh, River Rise From Your Sleep

by glennjaminhow



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Episode Related, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Platonic Bed Sharing, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-09-24 12:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20358520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glennjaminhow/pseuds/glennjaminhow
Summary: An exploration of Holden's panic disorder throughout season two.





	1. Oh, deep water, black and cold like the night

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reactionary fic based around the nine episodes of season two. I am so sad that we didn't get to see Holden living and dealing with his panic disorder; naturally, I had to write this to fill the void.
> 
> Some chapters will be longer than others. 
> 
> Lyrics are from: The Maker / Dave Matthews Band.

_ **ATTICA, NEW YORK** _   
_ ** APRIL 17, 1980** _

Springtime air like poppies and lemonade settles into his lungs. Yellow, the color of sun beaming high in the sky, of Bill’s sticky note stuck haphazardly to his briefcase, filters in through the sunlight. It reads: “1084 Locust St Attica NY 14011 585-442-8610.” It’s the address and phone number of their motel. Holden watched Bill write it down while they were still at ACF, not ten minutes after the interview with Son of Sam ended. He doesn’t know why he placed it on his briefcase of all places.

He knows he should be comforted by the things around him. Bill’s car, a staple of their serial killer interviews from the good ole days. New York, where he was born. Green trees, in full bloom. The sun, which was reluctant to shine until moments ago. He’s got the passenger window rolled down halfway in spite of allergy season. The radio plays Call Me by Blondie softly. Bill smokes a cigarette and blows puffs of smoke into the wind.

But his chest is tight, and he can’t make his hands stop shaking, even if he squeezes them hard. Dense, dreadful, dampening horror sweeps through his brain like a storm gaining tenacity rapidly. He feels the Valium bottle poke his side from inside his jacket pocket. The dog thing… It was a scam, a sham, a way to deploy evil without feeling compelled to do it for fun. Murder, that is. David Berkowitz didn’t want them to think he did it for kicks, that the urge to kill innocent people wasn’t part of the mania he forced himself to believe.

It was a hoax.

Holden wants to reach for the bottle. There are 22 pills left. He knows because he counts them. It’s been 12 days since he was released from the hospital. He took two pills the first night home. 28 pills. He took two more pills the day of Shephard’s retirement party. 26 pills. He took another one the next morning and coasted through the beginning of the day without difficulties. 25 pills. He took two more a couple days ago when he got home from work because he couldn’t handle the panic panging relentlessly in his heart. 23 pills. He took one just a few hours ago, before meeting with Son of Sam, to take the edge off. 22 pills.

And he tries to remember whether he acted normal in that interview. ‘Normal’ is relative, subjective, but Bill kept glancing over at him, and David Berkowitz kept making eye contact, and he gets squeamish when too many people look at him like that. Father always forced him to look him in the eyes, and Holden would never disobey his father. Christ, focus. Try to breathe.

Bill pulls into the motel parking lot. He checks them in while Holden sits in the car. Holden shoves his hands into his jacket pocket and toys with the bottle in his left hand. He can’t use the pills all the time. He isn’t going to see a psychiatrist. The 22 pills have to last. He can handle this. He breathes, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He flinches when Bill slams the door. He doesn’t recall him coming back with a key in hand, but suddenly Holden’s in their shared room. He drops his suitcase and sits on the edge of the bed. Bill moves around. It makes him dizzy. He doesn’t want to look, so he screws his eyes closed.

It’s okay. He remembers Mom telling him this when he used to get so overwhelmed he’d make himself ill. And it is okay. Nothing is happening. No one is dead or dying.

His ears ring. Bill is on his own bed in his underwear and shirt, flipping through channels and smoking.

“Did you hear a word I just said?” Bill asks. His voice sounds strange, muffled, underwater. He wonders how long Bill’s been talking. “Are you gonna sit here like that all day?”

He stares down at his hands, making fists over and over again. His hands don’t feel like his, more like they belong to someone else. He can’t feel it, not really at least, if he pinches the soft flesh around his wrists. His chest seizes. He feels for the Valium in his pocket and fishes them out. He shakes a single pill into his palm and tries to register why he’s staring at a pill in his hand, but his hand doesn’t feel like his own. Tears prick the corners of his eyes. His chest hurts.

“Jesus Christ,” he hears. Bill is moving around again. Holden stares at the pill. Bill shoves something cold into Holden’s other hand. A plastic cup from the bathroom. Water. “Take that, and lay down.”

Holden drinks the water greedily and swallows the Valium. He lies down on the bed and curls into a ball away from Bill. He traces patterns on the comforter with his fingertip. The drug doesn’t take long to kick in, and, soon enough, he’s asleep.

Later on, when he wakes up thirsty and disoriented, Holden finds a blanket draped over his body and his shoes on the ground beside the bed.


	2. I stand with arms wide open

_**ATLANTA, GEORGIA**_  
**_MAY 6, 1980_**

Those numbers have names. The victims. The victims have names. The kids. The kids have names.

He gags into the toilet bowl.

And he told Bill it went fine. It went fine. It was fine. He did well. He didn’t tarnish the FBI’s name. They’re still in good graces. Special Agent Holden Ford did exactly what he was supposed to do and didn’t stray from it. Except for meeting with the mothers of the recent, brutal child slayings going on here in Atlanta. Except that. Except that.

Teddy Smith. Alfred Evans. Milton Harvey. Yusuf Bell. Angel Lenair. Jeffrey Mathis. Eric Middlebrooks. Latonya Wilson. Aaron Wyche.

He sniffles, flushes, and strips. He has to wash this off of him.

So he cranks the temperature as hot as it’ll go. The water stings. It reminds him he’s alive. He’s always used showers as a stress reliever, like he usually does with running. He can’t run today. His head hurts. But the walls close in on him, and he shivers even though the water scorches his fair skin. He can’t run anywhere today. He’s afraid, after hearing all this, he’ll never be able to run again.

He doesn’t know how long he stays in there, but the water goes cold. He finishes up and ignores his shaking hands as he throws on a pair of boxers. He can’t deal with being constricted by clothes, knows he won’t like the tightness and closeness right now. He can’t be confined anywhere, especially not here. He tries to rid his ears of their voices, but they won’t stop.

And he has to help them. He has to.

Holden turns on the TV and settles on some cartoon. The news won’t do him any good. He lays down on the bed, bending his knees toward his chest and crossing his arms. The pillow is flat. His head still hurts. Holden wants to question the motives behind these murders. Does the perpetrator have a reason for committing such heinous acts toward children? Does the perpetrator mimic other serial killers? Is that how he gained insight about how to carry on with these crimes?

Tears stream down his cheeks. He breathes. He can’t… He can’t do this. He doesn’t want to do this. He breathes. He breathes. Breathes. But the tears are hot and fast. He can’t breathe. There’s a boulder on his chest and it’s so cold why is he so cold how come people can take lives without thinking about the families how can people watch blood drip and not wonder what lead them to this that’s his job he’s supposed to figure it out but he can’t figure this out because no one else is paying attention Bill warned him not to get too close not too fly toward the sun but he didn’t listen he thought Tanya was genuinely into him and now he’s here

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

He dissolves into a puddle of himself on the bed, face buried in his knees. He rocks back and forth back and forth back and forth to try to regain his sense of self. But his self is gallivanting in the stars, far away from this wicked, vile life. He sobs until the sobs turn into silent pleads for help, for forgiveness, for closeness, for absolution.

But he decides pleading is pointless, and he’s hopeless, so he rocks himself to sleep instead.


	3. I've run a twisted line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the positive feedback so far! Enjoy some panicked Holden!

** _QUANTICO, VIRGINIA_ **  
** _ JULY 22, 1980_ **

“Another child reported missing in Atlanta. This time, they received a ransom call. ‘I’ve got Earl. He’s in Alabama. It’ll cost you $200 to get him back,’” Gunn reports.

Bill nods. “Crossed state lines.”

“FBI has jurisdiction. That’s great,” Holden says. He tries to ignore the twinge in his chest when he lands on the word ‘great,’ the rise of his blood pressure, the shaking of his hands. He shoves them in his pockets.

“It’s a way in,” Gunn agrees. “DC’s assigned a case agent with expertise in kidnapping. And they’re looking at racial motivation; apparently, the caller sounded white.”

Holden’s eyebrows furrow slightly. “But the victim fits the pattern? Young, male, black?”

“Exactly. Earl Lee Terrell, 11 years old. I’m sending you both.”

Holden flinches. Remembers little Angel Lenair had another girl’s underwear stuffed down her throat. Yusuf Bell’s feet were carefully washed. “When do we leave?”

“Today. I want you there for the duration. Atlanta’s set up a dedicated task force to handle this. We’re going in under the guise of this kidnapping, but let the case agent handle that. We’ll use it to look at the larger picture. Be methodical. Do your legwork,” Gunn says, and then he looks directly at Holden. “And… follow your instincts.”

But how far will his instincts go in the face of something so extraordinary, so mindboggling, so rare? Serial killers… Obviously, they kill multiple people, hence the name, but the victims this time are children – a lot of children. Holden suspects there will be many more before the perpetrator, organized and confident in his crimes, is caught. He wants to think they can solve this in record timing, lock the man away without so much as a second thought, but he knows better. Look at Ed Kemper. He could’ve evaded capture for years.

Holden gulps. Gunn says something to Wendy before they file one by one into the elevator, but he doesn’t hear it. There’s this disconnect between his brain and his body. His vision swims as he stands beside Bill. This is the biggest task they’ve ever undertaken. It’s bigger than Ed Kemper. Monte Rissell. Jerry Brudos. Richard Speck. Now, their research is being applied in real life. Their decisions, their applications of the processes, their ideas all have consequences.

They make it downstairs to the basement. Holden tries to keep his body upright, even though his legs desperately want to give out. This isn’t just another day at the office. This isn’t the usual 9 to 5 grind, where they discuss their next interviews, compile data, or extend the questionnaire. This is something different, something big. Bigger than them. It's beyond what anyone, even the FBI, has dealt with in the past. This guy is still out there, and he’s still killing children, and he’s probably killing one right now.

Holden’s stomach lurches. He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. Bill and Wendy go to their respective offices, but Holden can’t. He turns the opposite direction, heart hammering in his chest. He stops walking when he reaches an abandoned room, small enough for a storage space and large enough for the bathroom Wendy desires. He doesn’t bother flicking the lights on. He slides down the wall facing away from the open door. He tries to level out his pulse, to return back to a normal status, but he knows he's never been normal.

And his insides squeeze out of his body like suds leaving a sponge. He blinks and breathes and covers his eyes with his hands. His mother always told him he worries too much, spends too much time analyzing every situation, plotting a plan of attack for trivial things, like what to wear the next day or what he should eat for dinner. The times he didn’t overthink, he got a cold from walking home from school during a thunderstorm without a hooded jacket or fell victim to food poisoning because he didn’t quadruple check the canned ravioli’s expiration date. But this is different. He has to answer for his mistakes, whatever they may be. Father always made sure Holden knew everything has a price. He’s sure he’ll make a ton of mistakes. Gunn wouldn’t have Wendy and Bill ‘babysit’ him if it wasn’t necessary.

His heart picks up the pace. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump thump thump thump it doesn’t matter he fucked up he fucked everything up he’s all alone and no one’s here and he can’t stop hearing Ed Kemper’s voice echoing off like a shotgun in his brain his heart’s made of cobwebs and dust and this is his life this is the life he chose for himself now he deals with serial killers and dead bodies and children strangled and murdered and stabbed and thrown away like garbage this is the life it’s his world and it’s made him paranoid

And his cheeks are wet really wet he’s drowning again but this time it’ll be in his own tears he’ll have an unmarked grave it’s grey and cracked and weathered from the elements no name he’s nameless not even his mom will come to the burial that doesn’t exist he shouldn’t have done this he’s pathetic he shouldn’t have done this he knows he isn’t cut out for this world he’s been told that his entire life he thought he defied the odds when he became FBI he was supposed to be brilliant he was supposed to make a name for himself because no one understood and no one listened enough to learn his name he was supposed to change things to help people to –

“Holden?”

And he’s choking to death on his lies his insecurities his fucking panic disorder he can’t breathe he tries to count tries to distract himself keep himself here because here is good and grounded tries to do anything to think of anything to make it stop just make it stop it’s gotta stop but his stream of consciousness lapses and relapses he wishes he could be nothing more than a rotting body in the ground this is good this is good just keeping thinking because it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts and he wants it to stop nothing ever stops his body doesn’t stop his brain doesn’t stop and this won’t fucking stop why won’t it stop stop stop stop stop stop stop –

“Kid?”

Holden looks up from where he’s buried his face in his hands. His cheeks are flushed with tears, but he can make out the blurry shape of Bill walking toward him. He flinches when he suddenly feels Bill’s hand on his shoulder, but Bill keeps his hand there, warm, calloused, firm. Holden heats with embarrassment, coughing to clear his throat and sniffling to lessen his congestion. Great. Now Bill will have even more of a reason to ‘babysit’ him.

He’s going to tell Wendy he’s going to tell Gunn he’s going to tell Shephard and have a laugh about it he’s going to tell the whole department that little Holden Ford can’t handle this shit can’t keep his shit together he’s going to ruin everything Bill’s going to –

“Calm down,” he hears Bill say. “You’re getting worked up over nothing.”

Over nothing? This isn’t nothing. This is his life. This is who he is now. This is –

“Jesus Christ, Holden. You have to breathe.”

Breathe? Is he not breathing? He thinks he’s breathing.

There’s a sharp sting across his left cheek that smacks his world back into focus.

Bill is kneeling on the ground in front of Holden. He somehow manages to look pissed and worried at the same time.

“Sorry, kid. I had to do something to make it stop.”

Holden’s eyebrows furrow, and he rubs at his cheek. He inhales shakily, fingers trembling and body aching. His head hurts, but he feels more… here. More grounded. He breathes in and out, in and out, in and out, forcing the panic to melt away.

“Sorry,” Holden whispers, voice cracking. “This is just…” He trails off.

“Overwhelming?”

He nods. “I don’t want to screw this up.”

“You probably will,” Bill says honestly; Holden uses the last of his energy to roll his eyes. “But that’s okay. I got your back.”

Holden nods but makes no efforts to move. He doesn’t think Bill’s telling the truth, especially not after how much trouble Holden’s behavior nearly got him into and not after he scolded Holden on the plane ride home from Vacaville about shutting up and doing what he’s told. He doesn’t really trust anyone like he used to. Everything is too strained.

“Okay?” Bill says.

Holden nods; loneliness and fear drape over him like a warm blanket.

“Okay, Bill.”


	4. I could not feel for the fear in my life

** _VACAVILLE, CALIFORNIA_ **   
** _ AUGUST 31, 1980_ **

Ed Kemper is eerily the same.

Same posture, same attitude, same voice. Holden can still feel Kemper’s arms winding around his torso, Kemper’s words in his ear, the rampant thumping of his own heart against his skin. This was his idea, to go see Kemper while waiting on Manson, but Holden’s beginning to think he suffered from a lapse of judgement. He hasn’t seen Kemper since the hospital. He isn’t sure about how it will make him feel. But he took three Valium, the most he’s ever forced down his throat at once, so maybe he can get through this without his panic disorder acting up.

Except Bill already knows, and Kemper probably somehow does too, and he doesn’t feel right about any of this.

“Did you know that Holden came to see me when I was in the hospital?” Kemper asks.

Holden’s insides clench.

“I’m aware.”

Holden paid Bill back for the plane ticket over three months ago, but it still seems like he’s forever in debt to his partner.

It’s his fault. This is his fault. He’s the reason why their relationship is so strained.

“It really meant a lot to me. That’s what friends are for, right?” Kemper asks.

Holden bites his lower lip. Nearly nods but doesn’t. Shrugs instead.

Static swirls in his skull.

“He’s never done it. Doesn’t know what it’s like,” Kemper says.

“You’re saying he isn’t worth our attention?” Bill asks.

“The mayhem has been copiously mythologized. If you really want –”

Holden’s chest tightens. His fingers shake. He feels Ed Kemper closing in, becoming one with his skin, absorbing his heart.

Snap out of it.

“We’ll keep that in mind, but we didn’t come here to talk about Manson,” Holden jumps in, surprising himself with the words on his tongue.

Kemper stares at him; Holden swallows. “Oh. What did you want to talk about?”

“You, Ed,” he says. If he’s going to sit here with Ed Kemper, he may as well get something useful out of it. He hates himself. “I wanted to ask you about something you said a while back, about revisiting the sites of your victims. Why did you do that?”

“Well, at the murder site, I could relive the experience, feel the same elation, the incredible release.”

Bill adds, “It excited you.”

“What would make you decide to visit?” Holden questions.

Kemper makes eye contact with Holden again. Holden maintains it, hearing his dad’s voice scream over and over again in his head. “The feeling of complete dominance, total possession you get from a kill, becomes a need. That need builds until it becomes a compulsion to a point that you have to hunt again. Sometimes, I could stave off that need by remembering the moment of the kill. You can really savor that when you’re in the exact spot.”

This is his job. This is his life. This is his world. This is his world, and it’s making him paranoid.

Stop. There’s no reason to think about any of this. Focus on work. It’s just work. Ed Kemper’s just another subject he’s here to gain insight from.

“Have you got somebody, Holden?” he hears. “Someone you can’t catch? Who is it? The East Area Rapist? The San Mateo Slasher? I-45 Killer down in Texas?... You’ve found somebody who hasn’t made the news yet. Just startin’ out.”

Holden nods. He can barely hear over the erratic thump of his heart. He wishes it would stop. “Would you have any thoughts on someone like that?” His voice is foreign to his ears.

“Of course,” Kemper says. “But I’d have to be acquainted with the pertinent facts.”

“We can’t discuss ongoing investigations, Ed. With anyone. I’m sure you understand.”

Kemper nods. Holden’s cheeks lose feeling. His hands don’t feel like they belong to him anymore. “Of course, Bill… It’s a taxing lifestyle. A lot of factors that go into success. As I got better, I was very careful all conditions were exactly right. This person you’re after, he has an overwhelming fantasy life. Fantasies of what he’s done, what he wants to do, how he’s going to improve. These dreams will consume him. Soon, the real world won’t even compare.”

What a sick fucking fuck.

He feels something inside him shrivel up. His head is above water, just barely, but the rest of him is drowning. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, and the bench is cold against his skin, and it eats him alive, swallows him whole, chews up his heart and spits it out on the wall. He’s closed in. Trapped. Nowhere to run. And he keeps imagining Ed Kemper peeking out into the hallway where Holden was drowning all those months ago, a smirk on his face, his eyes dark.

And he can’t… This isn’t… It isn’t…

“How do we catch a fantasy, Ed?”

Holden inhales. Exhales. Inhales.

“You can’t,” Kemper answers. If he’s any good, you’ll never see it. He’ll live like any other person, have relationships, hold down a job.”

Holden snaps himself out of it for a moment. Something with Kemper’s statement isn’t sitting well. “We know killers don’t have the tools to manage real life. They come from marginalized backgrounds; they break under the pressure of what they’ve done. They make mistakes.”

“It seems to me that everything you know about serial killers has been gleaned from the ones who’ve been caught,” Kemper says.

And he’s in a bathroom heart spewing like a leaky hose trying to breathe breathe breathe there isn’t enough oxygen he can’t breathe Ed Kemper’s hands are around his neck Charles Manson crucifies his dead body bring him back to life bring Holden Ford back to life he lurches forward and his stomach acid tastes like batteries it’s too much he didn’t know it could ever be too much he loves his job he loves his work it’s his whole life but this is too much he’s losing it slipping no one will want a crazy special agent with a panic disorder panic disorder it’s a physical result to emotional stress fight or flight fight or flight fight or

He doesn’t feel right displaced like there’s a chunk of him missing he can’t feel it when he pinches himself his brain is static his fingers are hollow and numb his skin tingles he can’t he can’t his head hurts he can’t handle the hurt his eyes won’t focus he’s sweating he doesn’t feel well and he doesn’t understand how he’s still alive how the enormity of life can just be scrunched together in a few short meaningless years on a planet he isn’t cut out to survive on his teeth chatter he’s a grain of sand by the ocean he’s lifeless a tomb a ghost there’s so much Goddamn hurt Holden’s nose is stuffy but he remembers smelling chamomile tea and eucalyptus and baby powder when he was small

And breathe. Breathe.

Breathe.

Holden pushes himself away from the toilet. Everything shakes. He wants to go home. His skin itches for privacy. He tugs his suit jacket over his shoulders. Snot and tears pool on the fabric, and, great, he has to explain this to Bill. He washes his hands and then his face. He opens the door with a paper towel clutched in his grasp. He feels inexplicably dirty.

When he exits the bathroom he doesn’t remember running into, Bill is there.

“Well, that was exciting,” he says sarcastically. He hands Holden a bottle of water.

Holden takes it. He isn’t thirsty. He doesn’t say anything as they walk to the car.

* * *

** _FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA_ **   
** _SEPTEMBER 2, 1980_ **

He loosens his tie. Throws his jacket on the chair in his bedroom. The phone rings.

But he’s exhausted from a night of ass kissing and storytelling and listening to Bill take over for him more times than he can count because he just isn’t interesting enough or what they wanted to hear. They want war stories, the same old shit as always, but Holden wants answers. He wants access to the impossible, the unknown, the truth. These parties are pointless to him. He doesn’t understand people, usually. He isn’t good at socializing. His childhood made that very clear to him, and his father made sure to always point it out whenever it seemed necessary.

His eye catches at the copy of Helter Skelter on his bedside table. He sits on the edge of the bed and picks up the phone, throat sore from talking.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Holden.” It’s Jim Barney. “News from Atlanta.”

“Jim. Tell me.”

“Another body. Another strangulation.”

Holden opens Helter Skelter. His notepad and pen are still inside from the interview with Manson. “How old?”

“Twelve. Clifford Jones. He was collecting cans for change so his aunt could do laundry. Broad daylight. He’s number thirteen.”

And then Holden sees it. The message Manson wrote on the title page.

“Each night as you sleep, I destroy the world.”

Jim says a couple other things, but Holden doesn’t hear it. Can’t understand it. He hangs up the phone and grabs the book. He traces his fingers over the words. He stares carefully, as if the inscription will jump off the page. It's so surreal; he is hypnotized by the rarity of it.

He doesn’t know how it happens, but suddenly he’s face down in his bed, entirely overwhelmed with the day, the news, the book. Snot and tears pool on the comforter. Stop. He has to calm down. He has to calm down. In and out. In and out. Just breathe.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Another breath won’t come. Holden’s heart explodes inside his chest.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.

His head spins. His pulse throbs. Is this what dying feels like? Is he dying? Is he?

And he needs to get out. He needs to get out of his own head.

When he was a kid, he got sick a lot. Mom always said it was because of the stress he put himself under, even over trivial things, like spelling quizzes or why his teacher looked at him funny during reading time. She always said, “I can hear you thinking from here, baby. You need to get out of your head.”

And he needs that. He needs to get out of his head.

He needs to open up and view the world through an unfiltered lens. Not everything is so textbook. He can’t read people anyway. X doesn’t always equal Y. North is only north because we make it that way, which is wrong, but maybe that’s the way he should be thinking. Bullshit like that. But things are textbook. X equals Y. North is north because of the gravitational pull that lets people know it is, indeed, fucking north. He’s so tired of hearing what he should be. How he should behave. How he should talk to other people, make eye contact, stop being weird, sit up straight, never leave the house without a crisp, clean shirt.

Fuck.

Fucking fuck.

Stop.

Just stop.

Holden finds a way to sit up, wipe his face, and locate the bottle of Valium in his pocket. He shakes out two blue pills. After this, he only has 13 left.

And he swallows them. Leans back against the pillows. Stares at the wall ahead of him.

He waits.


	5. My body is bent and broken by long and dangerous sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holden sickfic + Bill comforting him through a panic attack in this chapter! I couldn't resist!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a time jump here because I am following the actual timeline of the Atlanta Child Murders. It doesn't really pertain to the plot, though.

** _ATLANTA, GEORGIA_ **   
** _ FEBRUARY 5, 1981_ **

Pickett Yarborough is not their perpetrator.

No, the man responsible is black, between twenty and thirty years old, and drives a police-type vehicle. Their guy is not this white, redneck-ish, run of the mill, everyday man one could find on the side of the road. Crimes of this nature, particularly very violent crimes, rarely cross racial lines, and Holden isn’t sure why no one believes him when he says it. There have been studies; Holden’s even done a study himself. In Baltimore, not a single black male child would get into a car to do odd jobs if the driver was white.

He can’t understand why, at the very least, Bill is pushing so hard for this Pickett Yarborough fellow. Holden also doesn’t understand why Bill keeps stomping on all of his ideas. This isn’t their guy. He isn’t. The longer they spend examining this man, the longer the real perpetrator has to get away with his crimes, maybe even take and kill another child while they’re at it. Holden doesn’t understand it. They’re supposed to be a team, but they’re not acting like it anymore.

It’s confusing. Holden never knows where he stands with Bill, if they’re friends or nothing more than just partners, but their relationship is even more tumultuous since Holden’s hospitalization nearly a year ago. But that’s the thing. It’s been almost a year since his first panic attack, and Bill’s animosity toward Holden is still palpable. Not all the time, not constantly, but still enough of the time to make Holden feel very uncomfortable and small. At this point, he's too afraid to ask where they stand.

He can handle his instincts being questions by anyone here on this case, but it always stings a little bit more coming from Bill.

So, when it turns out that Pickett Yarborough’s only crime is whacking it in the woods, Bill is stressed and angry, and Holden is too.

Bill keeps saying it’s their duty to follow up on every potential suspect, but Holden tunes this out, slumped in the car and eager to get back to the hotel. He rubs his cheek, yawns, and leans his head against the window. It’s 58 degrees out in early February. He hates Atlanta weather. He misses home – Quantico – where the weather makes sense, and so do their cases. On days like these, where the stink cloud rising from their failures is most eminent, it’s best to sleep it off.

“We need to be smarter about this,” Bill says.

Holden blinks. For once, he isn’t in the mood for a continued conversation about policies and procedures. His head really hurts. He’s nauseous. He wants to lie down. Instead of answering, he nods and crosses arms over his abdomen.

“You pissed at me too, kid?” Bill asks.

Holden flinches. His heart races, blood filling with guilt and traces of panic. “Of course not, Bill.”

“So all that garbage about me only being half here when I’m here half the time is just bullshit?”

His head spins. He tightens his grip around his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said that. I know you’re going through a lot right now.”

Bill refuses to talk about it. Holden knows it’s something to do with his family. Bill never talks to him about much anymore. He likes to think he knows Bill pretty well, but maybe that’s just him liking to think that. He just isn’t great at reading people. But he knows the reason Bill won’t discuss it further with him is because he’s down here to babysit Holden, as well as working the case. Holden isn’t dumb. Bill and Wendy treat him with kid gloves, and so does Gunn.

And he’s beginning to understand why.

“Can you please pull over?” he asks, sweat pooling on his brow. The ache in his gut morphs from dull to fierce. He’s had a particularly nasty headache since before they found the bodies, and, even though he hasn’t eaten since breakfast almost an entire day ago, he’s feeling queasy.

Bill glares at him, shooting daggers into his skull, but he relents. “You having a fit again? What’s that? The fourth one today?”

Holden bursts out of the car the moment it’s in park. He falls to his knees in the dirt, head in his hands. He tastes cool air and bile on his tongue. He wishes it were snowing. It’s supposed to snow in February. He’s so hot. He’s sticky and sweaty, and the humidity here is nauseating enough on its own. He loosens his tie and fumbles out of his suit jacket, draping it over his lap instead of tossing it to the ground. He breathes, in through his nose and out through his mouth.

Rocks dig into his knees. He re-positions himself to where his ass is in the dirt, propped up again the car. The tire is cold and soothing against his back. He drags his hands over his cheeks. He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt. If he’s going to throw up, he wishes he would just do it already. He runs his hands through his hair, elbows on his knees as he kneads the flesh on his skull. The pressure on the right side of his head keeps building. He groans and hiccups.

There’s something wrong with him. His ears are so full and red they feel like they’re going to bleed, but he can breathe. He can breathe, so he’ll live, and this will pass, just like it always does. He chokes back a sob. No. Bill’s right there. He can’t do this in front of Bill, not again. He already thinks he’s helpless enough as it is. It’s just that everything is so vibrantly bright, explosive and tangible and close. These invisible walls enclose him, circling around him like members of a cult about to do perform a ritual sacrifice.

He can’t move he can’t move he can’t move something is holding him down there’s nothing he can do to get out of this it’s going to happen no matter what no matter how hard he fights back Father always said he couldn’t fight his way out of anything he’s a pussy good for nothing queer son of a bitch who can’t tie his own shoes without getting scared and now he can’t calm down can’t calm down because it’s stifling him and it’s killing him and there’s warmth on his cheeks from crying but they’re silent because no one listens no one listens he thrusts his hand to his chest so he can feel his heartbeat to know he’s still alive he is still alive buried in here he’s still alive he’s still alive he’s still alive breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe

Breathe just breathe it’s warm and cold and hot and sticky and his skin is on fire there’s something wrong with him there’s something wrong with him he wants to scream but nothing works and he’s choking to death on his own spit and he can’t breathe he tries to distract himself tries to do anything to think of anything to do anything to make it stop just make it stop Edward Smith Alfred Evans Milton Harvey Yusuf Bell Angel Lenair Jeffrey Mathis Eric Middlebrooks Chris Richardson Latonya Wilson Aaron Wyche Anthony Carter Earl Terrell Clifford Jones Darron Glass Charles Stephens Aaron Jackson Patrick Rogers Lubie Geter Terry Pue he’ll do anything to make it stop it hurts it hurts it hurts and he wants it to stop he just needs this to stop but it never will there’s no way out they’ll never catch the guy more kids will die because he’s too incompetent to figure it they’ll die they’ll die there’s something wrong with him there’s –

“Holden, stop,” he hears.

There’s something warm on his knee. Holden sniffles and digs his palms into his eyes so hard he sees spots.

He feels wrong and dirty hollowed from the inside out like a chocolate bunny on Easter Sunday he breathes it doesn’t work he breathes but it’s hot and crooked and his stomach swims violently like the ocean during a hurricane he pukes it’s nothing but yellow stringy bile he needs to get up so he can go to the hotel shower clean up act like this never happened just put a bandage over it go to sleep pretend because maybe then he won’t wear his emotions on his sleeve

“You have to breathe,” he hears.

He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. He’s dizzy. His body shakes. He leans heavily against something solid, strong, sturdy. He breathes deeply, forcefully so he doesn’t forget, and massages his scalp. The panic slowly vanishes, like a fire burning out in the middle of the night, but his headache returns full force.

And he dares to open his eyes. Everything is blurry, but he sees Bill sitting next to him, back against the car. And he sees that he’s laying completely against Bill; he immediately sits up straight, disorientation slamming into him like brakes on the highway.

“Relax,” Bill says gruffly. He lets Holden melt back against him without saying anything about it. “Do you have anymore Valium to take the edge off?”

Holden shakes his head. He’s been out of Valium since October.

Bill sighs. “You really should get more of that. You’re one panic attack away from a full-blown mental breakdown.”

He nods. He doesn’t offer anything else.

They sit like that for a little while, the sun setting over the streets of Atlanta. Holden focuses on breathing. Every now and then, people pass by, but Bill tells them to shove it when they stare. Holden sags harder against him, his head throbbing and stomach gurgling. At one point, Bill wraps his arm around his shoulders, and Holden presses his face against his bicep.

When he was younger, his mom would hold him close whenever he had ‘episodes.’ That’s always what his father called it: ‘episodes.’ Holden would get overly anxious and damn near lose his mind. Father would find the belt, and Mom would hug him tightly, card her fingers through his hair, kiss his forehead, whisper that everything will be okay. And Holden can’t help but note that same parental, protective swell in his chest that he used to feel before his mom died.

Eventually, Bill squeezes his shoulder. Holden sniffles and blearily opens his eyes.

“You’re burning up, kid,” Bill says.

Holden shivers. He hides his face. His head is about to explode. Bill makes him sit up on his own before getting to his feet. He bends down to help Holden stand, and Holden almost whines that he can do it by himself, but he doesn’t feel like it, is too wiped out to really care. Bill wrangles him into the car and drives to the hotel, while Holden covers his face with his suit jacket.

And then they’re there, and he’s manhandled through the lobby, into the elevator, down the hall, into a room. The cold, dry air hits him hard. He shakes relentlessly as he sits on the edge of the bed. He opens his eyes. But they’re not in his room. It’s Bill’s room instead.

“Why am I in here?” he asks hoarsely. The fever is kicking his ass. He almost doesn’t even care where he is. He just wants to get under the covers and sleep.

Bill looks at him. “Can I trust you not to pass out in your own vomit?” he asks. “Or to not have a fever-induced panic attack by yourself?”

Holden pouts. “I have a panic disorder, Bill. I panic. It’s kinda my thing, fever or not.”

“Exactly my point. Take off your shoes.”

Holden does what he’s told. Bill ushers him hastily to lay down, and Holden does that too. Bill doesn’t make eye contact with him while he places a blanket over Holden’s body. Holden shrivels up into it, curling his knees toward his chest and hiding his face inside of it, breathing in the clean hotel smell and wanting it desperately to become part of his skin.

“I’ll wake you in a couple hours to make sure your brain didn’t melt,” Bill says.

And he nods and closes his eyes. He feels that same swell in his chest, the one he used to get from being with his mom, when Bill lounges beside him on the bed.

Holden breathes in deeply and lets himself fall asleep, safe and sound.


	6. Standing here with broken wings

** _ATLANTA, GEORGIA _ **   
** _ MARCH 1, 1981_ **

"Jim says they found another body,” Bill relays.

And, after a day like today, Holden isn’t sure he can stomach the nausea building in his core. It lights him up like a Christmas tree, hot and feverish and all at once. The whiskey burns his throat. The overhead lights in the dimmed hotel bar make his brain kick into overdrive. He knows this feeling, has lived with it for nearly a year now, but the static electricity in his head swirls, never stagnant. He keeps his eyes straight ahead.

“Lubie?” he asks; Bill nods. “Cause?”

“Strangulation.”

“Where?”

“Vandiver Road, about two miles from victims one and two.”

The pang of panic punctures his lungs. “What was he wearing?”

Bill pauses before answers. “Just his Jockeys.”

“Same as four others. It fits. He fits the pattern… They’ve got to get on board with us. This is one predator, Bill,” Holden sighs. “We just gotta figure out how to get him in the open. Today was –”

He stops. Today was hell. Everything is so regulated and by the book that it makes their job impossible. How are they supposed to catch this guy without complete cooperation from the police commissioner? Or everyone else for that matter? It’s one set back after another. Holden isn’t sure how much more of this he can handle. While he yearns for this predator to be caught, to be incarcerated for all of eternity, to burn for his crimes, he just wants to go home.

“You had a good idea,” Bill says. “Probably won’t be your last.”

Holden rolls his eyes. “I don’t understand how 19 children can be slaughtered, and we spend an entire afternoon figuring out which drill bit is official size.”

Bill nods. “It’s been a tough day.”

“You heard from Quantico?” Holden asks. “Does Gunn even know what we’re trying to do down here?”

With all the bureaucracy, Holden doubts it. The person at the top is supposed to hear this kind of information first, but, usually, he or she ends up figuring it out last.

“I don’t think anyone knows how to deal with this, Holden. It’s not like there’s a blueprint for this.”

Holden flinches. “We should be creating a blueprint, as the experts. How are we supposed to do that when everything has to be filled out in triplicate?... Maybe when there’s an even 20, we’ll get a longer leash.”

And he regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth. It’s insensitive, his way of thinking. It’s the kind of comment that would normally get him in trouble, but Bill is always distracted, and, even though he’s supposed to be ‘babysitting,’ it’s obvious he’s given up on Holden too.

But hardening himself to the truths, to the profound vastness, to the insecurities is a way to distance himself. He’s frustrated with the lack of attention this case draws. He’s frustrated with how little information they honestly have. He’s frustrated with busting his ass trying to call this perp out and getting nothing but several scratches and bruises from crosses they personally had to build for a march no one wanted them at.

True to his nature, Bill changes the subject. “Your turn, right?”

“I’m good for another.”

Bill stands up and grabs his coat from the back of his chair. “Nah, I’m gonna get flat.”

Holden sips his drink. “Right. All the travel takes it out of you.”

And his partner just stares at him. “Yeah. Thanks for the drink.”

Holden turns his attention to the TV as Bill leaves. Of course Atlanta news is current with the latest developments, but he wonders what the scale of national attention is for this case. He doesn’t know. He’s been down here for so long he’s forgotten what his apartment smells like, if he accidentally left milk in the fridge, whether or not he still has toothpaste in the bathroom. He left his comfiest sweater in his closet. It’s Atlanta, so the weather doesn’t permit for a sweater in the first place, but Holden misses knowing it’s there if he needs it. His apartment runs cold. Always has. He remembers all the times he’s pulled on the sweater while ironing or watching TV or reading or studying case files, and he shivers. The swirls his finger around the rim of his glass.

It’s pointless, to miss his home in a time like this. 19 kids will never get to sleep in their beds again because some lowlife piece of shit stole their lives from them when they were so young. These kids will never get to come home and throw on their comfiest sweater after a long day of school again. These kids will never get their drivers licenses. They will never get any older than the age they were when they died. They will never see a life beyond the one they existed in.

Holden’s breath catches in his throat. He hiccups. The bar becomes the size of a closet, trapping him in on all sides. He stands, heart in his stomach and eyes on the floor, as he stumbles toward the elevator. He can’t do this here. He can’t he can’t he can’t.

And the manners in which those kids died are horrific. Kidnapped. Strangled. Left to rot in the woods or in the river or a school. And he thinks about the families. The terrified parents. The panicked brothers and sisters. The 12 year old neighbor who wondered if he was next. Did anyone of them know that it was their last day on earth? Could they feel it before it happened? Like some strange premonition?

Because Holden can feel it. He feels the pressure building in his skull, the anxiety trying to squeeze its way out through capillaries. He feels the static electricity humming loudly in his ears. He feels his hands shake, his lungs constrict, his knees give out. He crumbles to the elevator floor. He puts his head in between his knees, rocks himself back and forth.

His mom used to brush his hair off his forehead and tell him to name five things he saw, three things he smelled, one thing he heard. Name five animals that start with the letter A. Name his three favorite candies. Name this. Name that. Just to keep him present.

So that’s what he does.

He sees a tiled floor, marred with footprints and something both blue and sticky in the left-hand corner. He sees buttons. He sees a grey wall. He sees metal doors. He sees his shoes, splotched with dirt and mud from the march.

He failed he failed he failed he failed he

And he smells his own sweat. He smells some kind of afternoon musk, maybe from a man coming back from a construction job, something where he works with his hands. He smells the leftovers of his aftershave, the one he put on when the day was young before he –

He hears his heart. It beats and beats and beats and thumps and thumps and thumps. Holden pushes his hand against his chest and wills his heart to calm down, to stop pacing so quickly, to shut up for two fucking seconds, to let him think. He needs to think. He needs to breathe. He needs to breathe but breathing is hard when he’s sucking on air through a clogged straw when his chest is so tight like there’s a boulder sitting on top of it crushing his sternum he thinks of Yusuf Bell’s carefully washed feet crammed in a hole not even big enough for a small boy he needs to breathe he needs to breathe tears stream down his cheeks and he hiccups tears at his hair gags until the whiskey splatters onto his slacks his head hurts his body hurts his heart hurts –

The elevator dings. Holden pulls himself off the floor. He coughs. He stays close to the wall as he walks to his room. A door opens behind him. He feels a hand on his shoulder. It’s Bill. He’s already lost his tie and shoes. Holden stares through him. He’s not really here. He disconnects from himself. The hallway is bright. But his room is dark. He doesn’t know how he got here. He sits on his unmade bed. Bill is there too. Holden curls into a tight ball on top of the covers.

“Come on, kid,” he hears. The voice is gruff. It must belong to Bill. But how did Bill get here? “You’ve made a mess of yourself.”

Holden almost snorts. That’s funny. It’s funny. He really has made a mess of himself.

“You can’t lay here with puke on you,” Bill points out.

Holden scrunches his nose. His body doesn’t feel like his own. “I’m fine,” he whispers. His voice is foreign. It doesn’t belong to him.

Bill sighs. “You’re not fine.”

“Please go, Bill.”

“I’ll go when you shower and brush your teeth.”

Holden tries to roll his eyes. Panic rubs his muscles raw. “I’m not a kid.”

“Yeah? Well stop acting like one. Get up.”

“Can’t.”

“Jesus Christ, Holden. I’m not playing this game with you all night.”

“You don’t have to stay, Bill,” Holden whispers, staring through Bill and at the wall. “I know you don’t want to be here.”

_I know you don’t want to be here with me._

And then Bill is yanking at his shoulders. Forcing him to sit up. The movement is so quick, so unexpected, so sudden, Holden bursts into tears. It’s too fast it’s too much it’s too much his father used to throw him out of bed in the mornings call him a pussy over cereal kick him around when his mom was watching Mom always watched but she never stopped it she never stopped it because it can’t be stopped this is forever this is his life this is his life and it’s made him paranoid how is he supposed to solve this case when he can’t calm himself down he’s a failure he’s a failure he’s a –

The water is hot. Steaming. It singes his skin. His body doesn’t belong to him. None of this does. He shampoos. Washes his body. It should make him feel better. But it doesn’t. There is a t-shirt, boxers, and plaid pajama pants on the counter. Holden dries off. Puts on the clothes. Brushes his teeth. His movements are slow and rigid. He doesn’t feel like himself. He doesn’t feel like he belongs here. He doesn’t feel like he’s human.

Bill is there when he opens the bathroom door. Holden shuffles past him. He settles down in bed.

“I talked to Wendy about your fits a couple days ago,” Bill says out of nowhere. Holden flinches hard. “She sent these.”

Bill comes closer. Hands Holden a bright orange bottle. He reads the label. Valium. 10 mg. 60 tablets.

The bottle fits perfectly in Holden’s hand. He likes the weight of it.

“You’re going to start seeing a psychiatrist when we catch this piece of shit, when we go home,” Bill tells him. “This can’t keep happening.”

Holden says nothing. Does nothing. Isn’t sure he will do anything ever again.

Bill gives him a plastic cup of water. Holden pours two tiny blue pills into his palm. He takes the medicine. There is no immediate reaction or satisfaction. He guesses that’s a thing of the past.

Holden curls into the tightest ball he can. He crosses his arms over his chest. Bill clicks off the light. Bill leaves. And Holden is alone again.


	7. I have seen the flaming swords there over east of Eden

** _ATLANTA, GEORGIA_ **   
** _ MAY 15, 1981_ **

“Hey, kid,” he hears. There’s a warm spot on his shoulder. Holden stretches and blearily opens his eyes. “We’re home.”

Holden nods. It’s six AM. The sun is rising, casting an illuminating glow over the city streets. Thick early morning fog blocks the view of the monstrous Omni. Bill gets out of the car slowly, a hand placed on his lower back. Holden yawns and lets his forehead lean against the cool glass window. His eyes droop closed. He doesn’t want to move, even though his ass is asleep, and his left side is cramped up. Overnight stakeouts are as frustratingly irritating as they are endless.

“I would like to get some sleep sometime today, princess,” Bill says.

Holden gives him a side eyed sneer. “I’m tired.”

“No shit. Me too. Come on. It’s humid as hell out here.”

He groans, scratching his head and peeling himself from the passenger seat. He knows this is important; hell, it was his idea. But he isn’t sure how much longer he can handle this. He used to be a morning person, thriving on his eyes opening as soon as the sun was up, but now he can’t stand the sun. It’s bright. It’s hot. It hurts his eyes and his head. They’re on their third week in a row of staking out the bridge, searching vigilantly for the perpetrator, hoping and praying and wishing he’ll make a mistake and dump a body in the river.

Sometimes, it can be strange to want another human life to be taken and discarded like a piece of garbage, but it’s all they can hold onto.

“Are you this fucking slow in the sack too?” Bill asks.

Holden frowns. “I didn’t ask you to wait out here for me.”

Bill rolls his eyes. “Gotta make sure you don’t pass out on your way to your room.”

“I’m a big boy, Bill. I’ll be alright.”

His partner lights a cigarette. Holden grimaces. It’s too early for this. “Let’s go, Kemosabe.”

They begin the fifty feet journey to the entrance. Bill moves with all the speed and intensity of a grandma, and Holden isn’t much better. Holden rubs his heavy-lidded, itching eyes. The automatic doors unfold for them, to grace them with the presence of coffee and fresh linens and tiny bars of soap, but he barely has the strength to put one foot in front of another.

Holden tugs on his earlobe. The lights are too bright. He feels disoriented and disconnected and strange. He doesn’t know why.

His heart thuds. He doesn’t know why.

This place – their hotel – smells like lockdown and jail cells. Ed Kemper and Richard Speck. Jerry Brudos and Charles Manson. He doesn’t know why.

A hot Atlanta night. A child screaming for help. A brutalized body rotting in a river.

Not now. This can’t happen right now. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.

He doesn’t know how, but they’re in the elevator, and a cigarette dangles from Bill’s lips, and Holden buttons and unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt, and his lungs are begging for air. He stares blankly at the floor, stomach swimming and head buzzing. He rocks back and forth. He needs to get out of here. He’s closed in. The walls are suffocating him and torturing him, and this is his punishment. This is his punishment. This is how his life will be from now on.

“Calm down, Holden,” he hears. The voice is muffled and underwater.

His heart picks up the pace. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump thump thump thump he can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t breathe out his nose and he’s grasping at straws and he has no idea who their guy is but it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter because he can’t stop hearing Ed Kemper’s voice echo off like a shotgun in his brain you can’t catch a fantasy his heart’s made of cobwebs and dust and this is his life this is the life he chose for himself now he deals with dead bodies and strangled children and unsolved murders and disappointed heartbroken mothers and criminals who will never get caught never get caught never get caught

And his cheeks are wet he’s drowning again in front of Bill it’s always in front of Bill Bill thinks he’s a pussy good for nothing a reckless kid who needs babysitting but Bill has stuff going on at home but won’t tell him about it because why would he Holden is only concerned with this case nothing more nothing less he has tunnel vision he’s myopic and impulsive he should redo his profile he’s wrong he’s wrong they’re no closer to cracking this thing there are 21 dead kids and he isn’t doing anything to stop it he isn’t doing anything to help he failed he failed he –

He’s in Bill’s room again. He sits on the edge of the bed. He hides his face in his hands. He’s sweaty and shaky and desperate for something to cut the panic in half.

“Where’s your pills?” Bill asks. He sounds so strange, like he’s absent but far too present.

Holden swiftly pulls the orange bottle out of his slacks pocket and stares a hole right through it. He looks at his hands. They don’t belong to him, not anymore.

Bill snatches the bottle from him. Holden misses the weight immediately. It’s the same routine as always. Bill shakes two pills into his hand and gives him water; Holden takes them with no questions asked. Same as always. Same as always. He’s 31 years old. He should be able to take care of himself. But he can’t. He can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t breathe he can’t do this he –

“You gotta give them a chance to work,” Bill says. “Try to relax.”

“Why’re you being so nice to me?” Holden mumbles. He grabs a pillow and holds it against his abdomen. He feels deflated, weak, useless.

_He doesn’t like me._

Bill doesn’t answer. Tears stream down Holden’s cheeks. “Lay down.”

Holden hiccups and does as he’s told. He grips on to the pillow like it’s his only lifeline.

“Hot…” he murmurs. He shrugs out of his button up. He doesn’t protest when Bill takes off his shoes and socks for him. Useless. He’s a useless piece of shit.

There’s a cold, wet cloth plopped on his forehead. It’s soothing. He breathes in deeply and works on evening out his breathing.

And the Valium kicks in. Holden closes his eyes.

* * *

Holden awakens, frowning as he removes the washcloth from his forehead. It must be several hours later because the sun is high in the sky, burning through the curtains. He guesses it’s the heat of the day, somewhere around two PM. He rolls onto his back and pauses as soon as he sees Bill on the other half of the mattress, fast asleep. Holden gulps. He carefully puts his legs over the side of the bed, bracing himself in case it creaks. He doesn’t want to be anymore of a burden than he already has been. This isn’t the first time this has happened, after all.

“You should be in bed.”

Holden jumps, turning around to see Bill staring at him, his eyes sunken in and hair flat against his forehead.

“I’m gonna get out of your hair,” Holden says. “Thank you for… um, the hospitality? And for helping me. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

Bill rubs his cheek. Holden shifts his feet to calm the worry swelling in his chest. “I’m thinkin’ we need to get you to see that psychiatrist sooner than I thought. What was that? The third fit in two days?”

He breaks eye contact. “I’m just tired.”

“I am too. But you don’t see me having a panic attack every time I yawn. It’s not normal, Holden.”

He scoffs. “I’ve never been ‘normal,’ Bill.”

“Believe me, I know, kid, but this is worrying, okay? What’re you going to do when this happens during an interview? Or when we catch this son of a bitch?”

Holden sits on the edge of the bed, his clothes swaddled together on his lap. “That’s the thing. I’m not sure we’ll ever catch him.”

“What makes you say that?”

He sighs, scrubbing his free hand down his cheek. “We’ve been at this for months. Every attempt at making contact has failed. We know nothing more than we did at the start of this thing. It’s all beginning to feel… rather pointless.”

“You can’t possibly believe that.”

“I’m not sure what I believe anymore.”

“We’re going to get him, Holden.”

He nods. “I certainly hope so.”

And, really, he can only hope Bill is right, that this isn’t all for nothing, that their guy will get caught sooner rather than later.

“Lay back down, kid,” Bill says.

“Bill, I really don’t want to –”

“Holden.”

_Make things worse._

“Okay,” Holden whispers. “Thanks.”

Holden lies down on his side, curled away from Bill. The weight of someone being there is comforting, but it doesn’t feel right.

And he isn’t sure anything will ever feel right again.


	8. Burning in the eyes of the maker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that chapter seven should really be chapter eight, and that this chapter should be chapter seven. Oopsie! So the timeline is slightly off from that of the show. I'm really sorry about that!

** _ATLANTA, GEORGIA_ **   
** _ MAY 24, 1981_ **

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Holden asks Bill, eyes like daggers on his partner. This is ridiculous. Constantly having to keep Bill up to date is interfering with the case. It’s a wonder they’ve gotten anything done at this point. He takes in a deep breath when they’re away from Jim and starts, “Twenty-one victims. No suspects. And the guy I’m supposed to lean on, if he’s even around, has to be brought up to speed?”

Bill stares a hole right through him. Holden fights the compulsion to gulp. “Holden, this is not the time or place.”

He’s being inappropriate. He’s saying the wrong thing. He knows this. He knows this.

“You’re only half here when you are here, and you’re only here half the time.”

So why does he keep talking?

“I’m asking you nicely –”

Holden stops him. “I’m sorry that you’re having family issues, but you’re either in, or you’re out.”

“I’m doing the absolute best I can.”

He’s treading on dangerous waters. He knows this. He knows this.

But hot acid expels from his tongue anyway. “Well, it’s not enough.”

And Bill pinches his nose. Takes a calculated, measured breath. “First of all, you may lean on me, but I don’t work for you,” Bill says. “And the family issue I’m dealing with happens to be that my seven-year-old son watched three other children murder a toddler. So, when I’m not in Atlanta, I’m taking him to a child psychiatrist, dealing with the commonwealth attorney, enduring visits from social services, and trying to keep a marriage to the woman I love from crashing and burning.”

Holden’s eyes widen. He barely hears Bill’s confession. He thinks he stopped taking the rest of it in after ‘my seven-year-old son watched three other children murder a child.’ It makes sense, why Bill is torn between two places, two lives, to scenarios with sickening similarities. But why didn’t he tell him? Holden would’ve understood. He could’ve tried to understand. But Bill didn’t even give him a chance, and now they’re here, teetering on the edge of disaster.

“Bill, I’m sorry.”

His partner shakes his head. “I don’t need your sympathy. And you’re right; I should be out, taking care of my issues. But Ted Gunn sent me down here to make sure you don’t do anything stupid to jeopardize our debut on the big stage. So you want to help me? Show some fucking professionalism so we don’t look like we got off a plane with a suspect we’re tailoring all of our insights to support. And you look anxious; take a fucking Valium.”

Bill walks away. Holden stands there for a moment, heart racing and stomach swishing around near his toes. Ted sent Bill to babysit him? Deep in his gut, he knew this to be true, but it tears a piece of him apart to hear it out loud. And Bill’s going through all of this alone, and Holden’s acting like a man-child, and no wonder no one trusts him to behave. He’s unprofessional, he’s myopic, he’s obsessive, he needs to back away from his profile, he needs to be more understanding, he needs to build relationships with others instead of constantly backing himself into a corner, he needs to grow up, he needs to be a better man, a better employee, a better friend.

There’s a tightness in his lungs that won’t go away. He can feel his sanity slip in between his fingers, but he pushes his way over to Bill and Jim regardless. He can do this. He can do this. He doesn’t need to panic. Bill put him in his place; he respects that. But he’s hurt and sad and lonely, and he wants to pummel himself into the ground. He isn't sure how much more of himself he can handle. Holden knows Bill and Jim say something about the case, and he knows he says something too, but he can’t hear – doesn’t remember – what. Bill and Jim walk toward the car, but Holden plops down on the riverbank, hands in his hair and utterly defeated.

And this is why. This is why no one likes him this is why no one wanted to be his science fair partner in grade school why he always sat alone at lunch why he started to walk the six miles to and from school everyday he doesn’t understand people he doesn’t understand how he can act like such an asshole to a man who is very clearly going through a lot more than him right now sometimes he can’t see past the panic disorder the case the way his brain always seems to have static electricity racing through its veins he’s selfish he’s destructive he’s impulsive he can’t see past his own shit he can’t see past it and he’s freaking out again he can’t he can’t have a panic attack not here not where another body was pulled from the water only hours ago not where the press can see an FBI agent breaking down not where Bill is only twenty feet away judging him calling him a coward a pussy a hazard an arrogant bastard who thinks he’s always right –

Stop stop stop stop that’s selfish that’s so selfish this isn’t about him this isn’t it’s about Bill about how Holden made Bill feel about how Holden hurt Bill’s feelings he wasn’t understanding he didn’t read between the lines he knows he asked Bill what happened and why he wasn’t around as much and why he had to go home every weekend but he should’ve never opened his mouth before this is why Ted wants him to be babysat this is why he can’t be trusted he shouldn’t talk anymore should take a vow of silence it would be easier for everyone if he just stopped

His cheeks are wet he thinks about his mom and how she would want him to be better than this she raised him to be better than this every fiber of his being wants to apologize to Bill to tell him it’ll never happen again to ask if there’s anything he can do but talking will only make it worse Bill told him what to do be professional be professional that’s what he can do but he doesn’t feel very professional right now collapsed on squishy sand and craggy rocks crying and panicking.

And Holden slows his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. In. Hold for three. Out for three. In. Hold for three. Out for three. He repeats this mantra until the panging of his heart isn’t as violent, until he can open his eyes, until his stomach stops churning. He shakily pushes himself from the riverbank. His knees tremble so hard he almost sinks right back to the ground, but he pushes forward. No one wants to deal with this.

_Bill doesn’t want to deal with this. He has too much shit going on. I’m just making it worse._

Holden brushes his dirt-covered hands on his slacks. He straightens his tie. He makes his way to the car. Bill is already waiting for him. Holden tentatively takes his place in the passenger seat. He waits until Bill is on the road before he speaks.

“Bill, I’m really sorry about –”

“Save it, Holden. I’m not exactly in the mood for conversation right now.”

“But I just wanted to say –”

Bill snarls and shoots him an angry look. “I’m not doing this. I’m not going to accept your apology or whatever garbage may be getting ready to come out of your mouth just to sooth your ego.”

“My ego?” Holden asks. “This isn’t about my ego. I… I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Great. You’re sorry. What else is new?”

Bill reaches over to crank up the radio. Holden flinches and sinks lower in his seat. He tries to regain his composure and fight back the tears.

The second he’s alone, in a gas station restroom of all places, Holden crumbles messily in front of the toilet, where his silent pleas turn into sobs.


	9. Oh, river rise from your sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9/9 on 9/9, which also happens to be my 24th birthday!

** _FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA_ **   
** _ JUNE 30, 1981_ **

The pasta sauce on the cuff of his button up is an immediate distraction.

While there are so many accepts of his life he cannot control, – the outcome of Williams’ trials, the evidence stacked against him, the 29 missing or dead kids – he can control this. Holden stands up on tired feet and shuffles over to the kitchen sink, where he strips his shirt and begins washing the cuff under warm water. The stain smears and fades little by little.

“In Atlanta today, the public safety commissioner and the district attorney held a press conference to announce developments in the case of the city’s missing and murdered children.”

He stops scrubbing. He positions himself in front of the TV and listens.

Commissioner Brown says, “In all investigations, you reach a point when you’ve done all you can. So, for now, we’re suspending all 29 investigations, having arrested our prime suspect.”

“Will Wayne Williams be indicted for more than two murders?” a reporter asks.

“At this time, no.”

Another reporter inquires, “Does that mean you’re telling the families of the other victims that the man who murdered their children might walk free?”

There’s a pause. Brown seems uncomfortable, or some unfamiliar, with the question. The public safety commissioner takes over for him instead. “No, we are not. I would say to them that their children’s cases will be handed to local police departments. I would also say that, while we may not have all the required evidence to convict, we do have enough to close.”

Close? Of course that’s what they want to do. He wonders why it even matters, why he and Bill and Jim tried so hard for nearly a year to catch Williams, if people are just in it to close the case. They got their perp? Great. Holden believes Williams was involved in the killings, but he’s beginning to wonder if he was really in it on his own. The photo exchanges, the yellow house, the house by the stadium, the 29 slayings; there could be someone else out there.

But it doesn’t matter.

Clearly, this cost too much money and ate up too much time. Funds and resources can only take them so far. After nearly four years since the first death, he shouldn’t be surprised that closing the case is the next, final step. They have Williams in prison. He’ll likely be convicted and get life, or something similar to that, in prison. It’s mostly a loss. Williams will never admit to the other 27 murders, and it is doubtful he’ll be pressed for too much longer about it.

Soon, he’ll be forgotten.

The kids will be forgotten.

And all this work? It was for nothing.

Nothing.

Holden sinks to the floor, leaning heavily against the wall.

Summertime air like sweat and heat settles into his lungs. Brown, the color of Holden’s sofa, of the skin belonging to 29 dead children in Atlanta, filters in through the evening light. He knows he should be comforted by the things around him. His apartment, a pillar of research of their serial killer interviews from the good ole days. Virginia, where he lives and breathes. Green trees, in full bloom. The sun, which was bright and high in the sky today. He’s got his windows up halfway in spite of his summer allergies. The TV plays car advertisements softly. His books and records are waiting for him; his comfiest sweater is still in the closet.

But his chest is tight, and he can’t make his hands stop shaking, even if he squeezes them hard. Dense, dreadful, dampening horror sweeps through his brain like a storm gaining tenacity rapidly. He feels the Valium bottle poke his side from inside his slacks pocket. Holden wants to reach for the bottle. There are 4 pills left. He has an appointment with a psychiatrist, a Dr. Timothy Hollow, tomorrow, July 1st, 1981, at 11:00 AM. He wonders briefly if 4 pills are enough.

He stares down at his hands, making fists over and over again. His hands don’t feel like his, more like they belong to someone else. He can’t feel it, not really at least, if he pinches the soft flesh around his wrists. His chest seizes. He feels for the Valium in his pocket and fishes them out. He shakes a single pill into his palm and tries to register why he’s staring at a pill in his hand, but his hand doesn’t feel like his own. Tears prick the corners of his eyes. His chest hurts.

_“It seems to me that everything you know about serial killers has been gleaned from the ones who’ve been caught.”_

_“There are no rights and wrongs, only ises. Whatever life is, it is. Right and wrong got nothing to do with it.”_

_“So the murder of seven people just ‘is?’”_

_“We’re all our own prisons. We are each our own wardens. We do our own time. Prison is in your mind.”_

_“Each night as you sleep, I destroy the world.”_

_“Maybe when there’s an even 20, we’ll get a longer leash.”_

_“We’ve been at this for months. Every attempt at making contact has failed. We know nothing more than we did at the start of this thing. It’s all starting to feel… rather pointless.”_

_“Show some fucking professional so we don’t look like we got off a plane with a suspect we’re tailoring all of our insights to support."_

_“And you look anxious; take a fucking Valium.”_

It’s so cold in the marrow of his bones. He rocks himself back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. He repeats this to himself like it will help, like it will bring the 29 kids back to life.

Edward Smith. Alfred Evans. Milton Harvey. Yusuf Bell. Angel Lenair. Jeffrey Mathis. Eric Middlebrooks. Chris Richardson. Latonya Wilson. Aaron Wyche. Anthony Carter. Earl Terrell. Clifford Jones. Darron Glass. Charles Stephens. Aaron Jackson. Patrick Rogers. Lubie Geter. Terry Pue. Patrick Baltazar. Curtis Walker. Joseph Bell. Timothy Hill. William Barrett. Eddie Duncan. Michael McIntosh. Jimmy Ray Payne. Nathaniel Cater.

He repeats their names on a loop in his mind, his own sick, twisted prayer.

It won’t bring them back. It won’t bring them back.

Was this all for nothing?

Holden claws at his chest, tears streaming down his cheeks, desperate for air. Breathe breathe he has to breathe his insides squeeze out of his body like suds leaving a sponge he blinks breathes covers his eyes with his hands his mother always told him he worries too much but there were times he didn’t overthink he had to answer the consequences what is the consequence of this what is going to happen to all those families why didn’t he do anything more to help he can’t move he can’t move something is holding him down he can’t tie his own shoes without getting scared and he can’t calm down can’t calm down because it’s killing him and there’s heat on his cheeks but they’re silent no one is here no one is here he’s alone he’s alone he’s alone he tries to feel for his heartbeat to check if he’s still alive buried in here breathe breathe breathe breathe –

It’s warm and cold and hot and sticky and his skin is on fire there’s something wrong with him static like snow on a TV screen buzzes in his skill he’s choking and crying and begging and he’ll do anything to make it stop Wayne Williams will never be indicted for those murders he will be forgotten justice will not prevail he should’ve done more he should’ve

Holden dissolves into a puddle of himself on the floor, breathing wildly.

And he sobs until the sobs turn into whimpers, punctured only by the mosquitos buzzing in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your fantastic, positive response on this story! It means the absolute world and more to me!


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